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Wednesday, July 30, 2014

Scorned and Jealouly by S.L. Scott

From
the Inside Out

Chapter 1

March 12th

I hate Ethan Porter. I
hate him with all my soul and every fiber, muscle, and nerve of my being. He
broke me and my heart simulataneously, destroying everything I knew my life to
be. Over the course of the next year, my friend, Brandon, had to put me back
together. Piece by piece, he glued me back into a semblance of what I used to
be before I knew Ethan, or so I thought. But I didn’t realize he was also
bonding himself to me in the process, until one night when my friend became my
lover. Brandon never should have played that role, especially since I was still
too broken to be good for anyone else. So we went back to being friends, my
lover returning to the role of friend again because I needed a friend more than
a lover.

Tonight, as I watch Ethan across
the restaurant, I feel a rush of emotions and memories, the last conversation
we had starting to pull me under.

“I hate you. I hate you for making me take
this job. I hate you for making me buy that car. I hate this apartment and the
furniture. I hate everything that you made me do because you wanted it that
way.” Lately, you’ve replaced the word love with hate. You’ve used it
generously in the last week and more than a few times tonight, five in the last
minute.

He doesn’t know
I’m in the same restaurant. Fortunately he hasn’t seen me. When my hand
twitches, I realize I’ve pulled my phone from my purse, subconsciously to help
diffuse the panic attack before it hits. I refuse to let it hit or call Brandon
every time I start freaking out over Ethan.

This
isn’t a restaurant I frequent and being in the same place as him after three
years is completely coincidental. I’ve lost my appetite, so I push the plate of
food in front of me away.

I glance
over at him and her—red hair, red
nails, red lips, red shoes, too tight red dress, red clutch perched on the
table next to her glass of red wine. I roll my eyes, everything about her is so
cliché and boring, and predictable for a man to be attracted to her.

Her eyes
meet mine and I look away. In that glimpse, I saw that her eyes are light
colored, maybe blue, probably blue.

Mine are
Hazel—green on a good day, brown on most.

The one I
want to see deep down has his back to me. He hasn’t seen me in three years and
it makes me wonder if he ever did even when we were together. I don’t know and
I hate to think about that time… the times when it was bad.

“I hate my life. I hate this life… with
you,” you yell at me.

I. Hate. You. That’s all I gather from you.
I ask, “Have you met someone else?”

“God damn it, Juliette! This is about you
and me, not anyone else.”

You turn your back when you shout, which
makes me question your truthfulness since I can’t see your eyes. Do I speak
again or let you wrap this up on your own? I’m at a loss here. My phone rings,
making both of us look over at it. You’re not happy about the intrusion, though
I’m relieved by the interruption.

“I have to get that.” I walk across the
living room and pick it up.

But before I can answer, you say, “Get it.
I’m done here anyway.” My eyes lift from the gallery’s number flashing on the
screen back to yours that are looking down. “We’re done.” You leave on that
note, walking into the bedroom and leaving me to take my call.

“This is Juliette.” I walk out of the apartment
to give you time. You seem to need it right now. It doesn’t occur to me until
I’m outside that spring has arrived and the white snapdragons are in bloom in
the park across the street.

After many reassurances of my return to
work, I hang up the phone and realize that you won’t be there when I get home.
Is it even home without you there? You meant what you said and I’m at a loss...
again. I’m losing you. I’m losing my heart. I’m losing my other half.

I’ve
forgotten now if it was ever good? If I dig deep, really deep past the pain
that was inflicted and the scars that remain, it was. It was blissful and
perfect. I felt loved. I felt pretty. I felt whole. We were more good than bad,
but now only the bad remains.

Glancing
back to the table, I see her eyes on me again. Quickly, I dig out a fifty and
toss it on the table. That will easily cover my bill, even at an over-priced,
too-trendy-to-be-considered-trendy-any-longer establishment on the Upper West
Side.

My eyes
meet hers one more time. I hope mine don’t give anything away. Things like: how
I know what you look like when you fall apart underneath me, how you love for
me to touch you there, but not go
further, deeper, and how your eyes match the blue skies right before a storm
rolls in. I know all these things because I’ve experienced them with you. I
know you, the real you.

Does she?

The last
look I allow myself is of you, just you, blocking her from my focus. Your hair
is styled. You always had great hair and still do even despite the hateful
curses I had over the years for you to go bald. The light starch to your shirt
proves you haven’t changed. You insisted the perfection, but still wanted to be
comfortable in your clothes. The large face of your watch gleams under the
track lighting above. You were always very confident… or cocky. I’m not sure
which anymore. My memories on that subject have somewhat faded, overtaken by
more harmful ones.

As I walk
through the intimate tables of the dining area, I look over at her one last
time. It’s easier to look at her than you. You hold too much pain, more than I
can endure tonight. She nods to you while smiling as if to tell you silently
that I’m watching, as if to tell you, you have an admirer. I’m not an admirer. I’m an adversary—the enemy—the person you hate
the most in the world if I recall your words correctly.

I push
the door open and the cool night air hits me. Spring is on the verge of
springing but hasn’t sprung. I wrap my arms around myself and head south.

I hear
your footsteps.They quicken but I
refuse to respond to careless niceties you probably feel obligated to dole out.

Why?

Why do
you try?

Why do
you care?

What do
you want?

“Hey!”
You shout from a distance, planting yourself in a spot on the sidewalk, not
chasing. I’m walking in four-inch Prada. You could catch me if you wanted. You
don’t want to though. That much is obvious.

Rounding
another corner, I find safety in the shadows of the building. Walking. Walking.
Walking. No Ethan and no more Juliette. Just walking until I reach my comfort
zone.

My hand
is shaking although I’m standing in front of my building.

One ring.

Two
rings.

“Hey,
Jules, it’s kind of late for a social call.”

My heart
calms and I smile. “You love hearing from me and you know it.”

He laughs. “Yes, I do. Anytime, day or
night for you.”

“Can I
come over?”

I hear
shuffling. He’s looking at the time. I know he is. It’s only ten-fifteen.

“Of
course. Is everything alright?”

“Buzz me
in.”

“You’re
already here?”

“Yes.”

“Where’s
your key?”

“Buzz me
in.”

The lock
releases and the door is opened without further question. He knows when not to
push. He’s great like that.

I climb
the two flights, running out of breath after the rushed walk home. When I walk
in, I set my purse on the table by the window. I like the view from his
apartment because it’s the opposite of mine. It gives me a new perspective. He
leans against the kitchen archway. It’s a comforting design feature in the
otherwise modern apartment. “The spare room has fresh sheets or you can always crash
in my room,” he says like he’s joking, but I know he’s not.

The offer
makes me smile, but just slightly. No longer lovers. “We’re better as friends,”
I gently remind.

He’s
watching me with his intense dark eyes. His eyes are blue, but so different
from yours. His are the deepest oceans and yours the sky above.

The
weight of his gaze lays heavy on me, scanning my back as I look out over the
street, spotting a pocket view of the park. I turn. “I’m tired.”

“You know
where everything is.”

“I do.”

I breeze
past him as if I own the place. In a way I do. It’s a second home to me. I have
some of my things, my belongings stashed around, in the bathroom, in the
bedroom—the guest bedroom. My vitamins reside in the kitchen. Just things,
inconsequential things.

I stop in
the doorway to the guest room before I disappear for the night. “Thank you.”

“You’re
always welcome here, but next time, use your key.”

That
makes me smile, a real one, genuine in its roots. “Goodnight, Brandon.”

“Sweet
dreams, Jules.”

My dreams
aren’t sweet. I’m restless, even here at his place. I used to find solace, but
your intrusion into my life tonight has caused an imbalance in my world.
Memories of the night you left me flood my dreams…

Reality strikes hard at the exhibit. I lose
my mind and my new client when I breakdown in the back room behind what I
thought were closed doors and cry. My tears ruined his masterpiece—a piece the
artist just painted live in front of the potential customers. I had just sold
the painting and pulled it from the collection at the request of a buyer.

Reflexively, I rub the canvas with my hand
in an attempt to wipe the tears away but the paint smears under my touch.

I’m called unprofessional and careless, and
in his fit of rage, the artist refuses to work with me again. My tears costing
him a five thousand dollar reward for his talents and time. The loss of the
love of my life cost me more. He didn’t seem to care about that. Artists can be
testy that way. He broke the frame and trashed the painting when the buyer
pulled out of the deal, not wanting my common problems splattered on his
masterpiece.

When I return home late that night, the car
is not parked out front or anywhere on our street and the apartment is bare.
But you hated that car and you hated the furniture. You hated your life and
mine, you hated yourself and me. You said so and yet, you still took it away.
You took it all with you except for me.

Nothing remains in the place we called home
except a twenty-five dollar coffee maker and my clothes dumped on the floor
because you decided to take the dresser.

I kick off my shoes and go to make myself a
cup of coffee. You took the beans that I had freshly ground this morning. I now
have a coffeepot with no coffee to go in it. I drop to the floor in the kitchen
and fall apart, completely apart, my heart shattering into a million pieces.
The gallery breakdown was just the predecessor of what was to come and this
apparently is what was to come. This was the remains of my life, the end as I
knew it. In the course of a ten hour absence, my life was packed and moved to
another location, an unknown location.

Was this planned?

For how long?

Movers on the same day?

A storage unit or another apartment waiting
for you?

It seems too organized, premeditated.

I held the black coffee maker in my arms and
cradled myself around it, needing to hold onto something tangible and this was
all that was left. This was all I had to show for a life that was built on love
but died in misunderstandings and lies.